to himself again, Luke Marchant sat back on his heels, his hands idle. He turned his head and gazed fixedly after the departing figure of the girl, her beautiful brown hair gleaming in the sunshine.
Lambert’s watch showed five minutes to one as he and Julie made their way back towards the hotel. Lambert was by now ravenous.
A woman came along a nearby path, progressing gracefully in the same direction with the aid of an elegant walking stick. Not far off seventy, Lambert judged. She was chattering to a small pug-nosed dog, a black-and-tan King Charles spaniel, trotting docilely beside her at the end of a lead. From time to time the dog uttered a little bark by way of reply, tilting its head to look up at her.
The woman smiled in friendly fashion and spoke a word of greeting to Lambert and Julie. An aura of expensive French perfume drifted to Lambert’s nostrils as she went by. She was a lady of generous proportions, with the remains of great prettiness. Very well groomed, carefully made up; immaculately dressed hair of a subtle shade of ash blonde. She wore a light, flowery, floaty gown – the word ‘dress’ seemed too mundane for such an airy creation; it looked as if it had cost a great deal of money.
A long-term resident of the hotel, Lambert guessed; she had a relaxed air, as of someone very much at home in her surroundings. She came into the dining room – without her spaniel – a few minutes after Lambert and Julie had been shown to a table. She made a regal progress across the room, dropping a word here, a nod or smile there, till she reached her small table laid with a single place, not far from Julie and Lambert. Her name, Lambert gathered from exchanges during a stop she had made close by, was Mrs Passmore.
Julie made her choice after briefly scanning the menu but Lambert, in spite of his hunger, took somewhat longer to decide. He eventually settled on salmon but even then found himself torn between salmon mayonnaise and poached salmon with hollandaise sauce. The waitress, a cheerful woman with bleached hair and bright red lipstick – ‘Call me Iris, everybody does’ – guaranteed both dishes to be delicious. The chef was first class, she assured them, a young Frenchman who had been at the hotel a couple of years.
As Lambert finally opted for the mayonnaise the talkative grey-haired woman in the chalk-striped suit came into the dining room and took her seat alone at a table some distance away. She gave the two of them an acknowledging nod in passing.
‘I see you’ve met our Miss Hammond,’ Iris observed.
‘A very knowledgeable lady,’ Lambert remarked. ‘About plants, at any rate.’
Iris smiled. ‘That’s a recent craze with her. She’s bought herself a cottage out at the back of beyond; she’s moving there very soon. It’s nothing but gardening now all day long. Gardening books from the library, gardening programmes on the television and radio, gardening pages in newspapers and magazines. Six months ago I don’t suppose she could tell a daisy from a dandelion. But I’m pleased for her, she needed a new interest. She used to be a nurse – private, not hospital. She’s retired now.’
Iris suddenly became aware of the presence of a man and woman who had appeared in the doorway of the dining room and now stood murmuring to each other, their eyes everywhere, raking the tables, the guests, the food, the service, with practised speed. ‘The Marchants,’ Iris said in a low voice. ‘I’d better be off or I’ll be in trouble.’ She vanished towards the kitchen.
The pair in the doorway stood murmuring together a few moments longer. Evan Marchant was a dapper man in his mid-thirties, impeccably groomed, conventionally dressed. Sleek black hair, slicked back; dark eyes, alert and calculating. He looked poised and self-contained, very much in control; a man never likely to be taken by surprise.
Lambert put Mrs Marchant at a good ten years older than her husband. A little pouter pigeon of a woman with bright, darting eyes, hair elaborately dressed in a lofty style designed to add inches to her height; it was tinted an unflattering shade midway between dead leaves and Oxford marmalade.
Mrs Marchant left the dining room and her husband began a ritual tour of the tables. He leaned forward slightly as he progressed, gliding rather than walking, his hands lightly clasped before him. Lambert half expected to hear the strains of the ‘Skaters’ Waltz’ burst forth at any moment from an orchestra secreted behind the scenes.
Marchant paused at every table. His face wore an urbane, professional smile. When he reached Lambert’s table he inclined his head at Julie. He had already welcomed her to Calcott House when she checked in. ‘I hope everything is satisfactory?’ He had an unctuous voice. She assured him that it was. He inclined his head at Lambert. ‘We shall hope you’ll find yourself able to come and stay with us at some future date.’
Iris approached with the food and Marchant took a couple of paces back. He stood watching for a moment as she deftly served it, then he inclined his head again and resumed his circuit of the room.
The food was as delicious as Iris had promised. Julie chatted in an entertaining fashion, scarcely ever, Lambert noticed, saying anything very personal about herself. He managed to gather that she was living on the outskirts of Millbourne, she had a job in the town, and that was about all. He asked about her job but she made a face, implying it was of little interest. ‘Is it so dull?’ he pursued. But she would only say: ‘It’s certainly not what anyone could call exciting. I’ll be back at work on Monday morning. I’d just as soon forget the job till then.’ He asked no more personal questions.
When Iris brought the coffee Julie said to her: ‘I wouldn’t at all mind coming back here for a longer break, say a week or two, quite soon. Do you think that would be possible?’
‘I think you’d be all right,’ Iris told her. ‘It’s still pretty early in the season. It would be a different story if it was July or August. And two of the residents are leaving soon. Miss Hammond’s off to her cottage in the next week or two and Mrs Passmore’s going to join an old friend who’s been widowed – they’re going to try sharing her house together, to see if it works out. I should think it would, Mrs Passmore’s easy to get along with.’
She caught Lambert’s quick glance at the nearby table where Mrs Passmore sat over her coffee and liqueur, selecting a chocolate from an expensive-looking box in front of her. ‘You needn’t worry,’ Iris assured him. ‘She won’t hear us talking about her. She’s pretty deaf, though she’d never admit it. You have to face her straight on and talk quite loudly if you want her to hear. She’ll have to come round to wearing a hearing aid sooner or later but she’s putting it off as long as possible.’ She grinned. ‘You’d think folk would have got beyond vanity at her age but it seems they don’t. Take that hair of hers. Looks well, doesn’t it? That’s a wig. Funnily enough, she doesn’t make any secret of that. Wigs are quite a hobby of hers, she has half a dozen in different styles and colours, they cost a fortune.’ She turned to go. ‘Yes, I’m sure you’ll be all right,’ she added to Julie. ‘Give them a ring as soon as you’ve settled on a date. I’m sure they’ll be able to fit you in.’
As they were finishing their coffee Lambert saw Miss Hammond push back her chair and walk across to Mrs Passmore’s table. Mrs Passmore looked up at her, watching her lips; Miss Hammond spoke slowly and clearly. ‘I’m going over to the cottage this afternoon; I’m leaving in a few minutes. I wondered if you’d like to come with me and take a look round, see what you think of it. I’m sure you’d find it interesting and you may have some ideas about improvements.’ Her voice took on a cajoling tone. ‘It’s a beautiful afternoon. I’ll be sure to bring you back here in time for tea.’
‘It’s very kind
